The Art of Shaving
by Malapropian
Summary: When Peter picks up Stiles from the airport, he expects certain things. He expects the noise and the smells and the crowd. He expects an exhausted Stiles to climb him like a tree and demand immediate reunion sex. Peter is not expecting to see that.


For Taylorpotato.

We were hanging out in the chat talking about facial hair. Then I said "but what about Peter using a straight razor on Stiles?".

And then Taylor died.

Obviously, that meant that Laura and I needed to make a thing dedicated to Steter and straight razor shaving.

Blame Elpie for the fact that this is not 500 words long. She screeched at me for more, and I simply had to oblige. Blame me (and that it only took a couple of hours to write this) for the fact that it is low quality trash. Blame Taylor for all the daddy kink I shoved in here.

There is a photoset on fckyeahsteter's tumblr. The link is in my profile.

 **Warning for daddy kink. If that's not your thing, then this is not the fic for you.  
**

* * *

When Peter picks up Stiles from the airport, he expects certain things. He expects the noise and the smells and the crowd. He expects an exhausted Stiles to climb him like a tree and demand immediate reunion sex.

Peter is not expecting to see _that_ as his baby boy rushes into his arms, burying himself in his chest. He doesn't even care about the sharp corner of something in Stiles' duffel bag poking at his back. Not when he's forced to bear witness to this _travesty_.

"I've missed you so much, Daddy." Stiles's voice is muffled in Peter's chest. Peter can feel the uncomfortable prickle of the patchy beard through his shirt.

"I missed you too, princess." Maybe he can learn to accept the thing growing on Stiles' face. They have all summer. Stiles might decide he wants to shave it all off. Anything is possible in Beacon Hills.

* * *

As it turns out, Peter can't accept it. The beard is a constant dark presence hanging over them. Marring their time together. Sucking the joy out of everything. It's strange, foreign to kiss Stiles and feel the answering drag of facial hair against his own. Now, when Stiles enthusiastically sucks him down, Peter's distracted by the beard scratching at his balls, his inner thighs. Each time Stiles curls up against him and rubs his face across skin, it's startling. There's a split-second when Peter doesn't recognize him.

He hates it.

They're in the middle of the afterglow when Peter makes the decision. This is intolerable. If he were human, his neck and chest would be pink and sensitive for the rest of the day—and maybe tomorrow too. As it is, Peter can feel the phantom burn at his groin where Stiles insists on lavishing him with attention. It's one of their favorite places for Stiles to be, and now Peter can't even enjoy it.

No matter that the sensation is totally different from real fire, he can't stop his visceral response. Peter's skin crawls at this distant reminder.

For the moment, he puts aside his discomfort and strokes Stiles' sweat-dappled back, increasing the pressure as he passes over the darkest of the purple-red marks. Though Stiles is fucked out, he moans and wraps his sex-weak limbs around Peter, humping his soft cock into Peter's thigh. Always ready to chase pleasure no matter how drained he is.

"Princess, are you still with me?" Peter drops a kiss on Stiles' forehead. "Or did I wear you out?"

"Uh-huh." Stiles clumsily shoves his face into Peter's neck and gnaws on the tendon in a self-soothing gesture—all while the infernal beard _digs_ into his skin.

He ignores the beard and wispy attempt at a moustache. Just one more day, and it will be _gone_. "I have a surprise for you. Tomorrow."

"Mmm. I like your surprises. They usually end with orgasms." Eventually, Stiles stops scraping his face against Peter's neck and yawns. "Love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, baby."

* * *

While Stiles is out to lunch with his father, Peter sets up the master bath as an impromptu barbershop and adjusts his towels and tools until they'll be at the perfect angles and distances for when he has Stiles sitting by the sink. Peter even throws a towel in the warmer so Stiles won't whine about his bare ass on the cold, hard countertop. He's just finishing stropping the blade when Stiles returns.

Stiles smells faintly like incense and the food from the "healthy" Chinese restaurant. "So I think Dad liked the new place. At least, he didn't seem upset that nothing was deep-fried and covered in sauce." His voice sounds closer now, he's probably in the hallway. "Is it time for my surprise?"

Peter's lips twitch in amusement, anticipating Stiles' reaction. "I'm in the bathroom. Why don't you take your clothes off and join me?" He tests the blade against the hair on his wrist and nods when it shaves a clean stripe off the edge. Perfect. He folds the razor for now and lays it next to the loaded shaving brush propped on the soap dish. If he's right, then he has just enough time to fold the warm towel into a makeshift cushion.

He hears Stiles throwing off his clothes and then footsteps approaching the bathroom. "What the fuck? Did you turn into a barber while I was in school?" _There it is._ "Seriously, Peter. What is all this for?" Stiles reaches out for the razor in curiosity, but Peter catches his hand before it can close around the handle. "I didn't even know you had all this."

"You spend as little time on personal grooming as you can get away with. I think your eyes glaze over when you even look at the counter." Peter sniffs. "I knew that you'd let yourself go given half the chance, but I didn't imagine _this_ level of neglect."

"Hey! There's nothing wrong with the beard." Peter levels a stern gaze at Stiles until he hangs his head. "Okay. Maybe it's a little messy, but it's my first one!"

"Stiles. Baby. Princess. Light of my life. _It has to go._ " He pats the still-warm towel. "Now be a good boy, and get your cute little ass up here." Stiles fidgets and chews his lip in indecision. His heart rate speeds up and his scent carries the first bitter-metallic traces of stress. Peter's face softens. He draws Stiles closer, skimming a hand down his side and drawing soothing circles on the jut of Stiles' hipbone. "I promise you'll like it, and you know if you say stop, then I will."

"Okay," Stiles mutters. "I was getting tired of it anyway."

"Wonderful. Now up on the towel. Every man should learn how to use a straight razor." With a brief detour to squeeze Stiles' pert ass, Peter grabs him by the thighs and drops him on the counter.

Stiles fidgets his way through the application of hot towel and shaving oil, but he _does_ cooperate. As Peter uses the brush to apply the rich lather, Stiles grows more and more still. His breathing strains and stutters, and his arousal mixes with the spicy bay scent of the soap.

"Having fun yet?"

"Nope. This is terrible. The worst. I deserve something nice after this." The exposed parts of Stiles' face are a soft pink, his eyes are dark. Peter elects to ignore the half-hard cock bobbing between them.

"Of course," Peter murmurs. "I'll see if I can't hurry this arduous process along." Without breaking their gaze, Peter picks up the razor and snaps it open. "Once we begin, I'll need you to be very still. I don't want to cut you." He tilts Stiles' face up into the light and examines it critically. "Tap my hip once for yes or twice for no. Can you do that for me?" Stiles taps once. "Good boy."

Peter rests the sharp edge of the blade just above the lather. Stiles' skin is so thin, fragile; yet with no hesitation, he sits with his eyes closed and throat bared, waiting for the kiss of the razor. The unequivocal trust he displays never fails to make Peter's insides twist with unwanted emotions. Peter doesn't know what he's done to fool the universe into giving him something this precious, but this is one thing he'll never betray. He'll never harm Stiles—at least, not more than the boy asks.

The only sounds are Stiles' rapid breathing, the thump of his heart, the trickling faucet, and the soft rasp of the razor. The air is close and humid with arousal; soon it's the only thing Peter can smell. Every stroke of the blade sends a fine tremor through Stiles' hands, but he maintains the unnatural stillness of his head and neck. Drops of sweat drip down Stiles' temples as he attempts to control his reaction. By the time they're at the halfway point, Stiles grabs Peter by the hips and clutches _almost_ hard enough to hurt.

Peter pauses with his arm in mid-air, razor glinting in the bright lights. "Are you okay?" The bony fingers twitch once. "Was that what you meant to say, baby?" The fingers squeeze once more. "Okay, then." He completes his interrupted motion and shaves another clean stripe through the thick suds. A soft whimper escapes Stiles' tightly shut lips, nearly white from the pressure. "Shh, princess." Peter continues to the other side, tilting and turning Stiles' head as he needs. It's harder to control himself as the razor reveals more and more bare skin. He reminds himself and Stiles, "We're almost done. Just a little more to go."

Peter wraps one hand around Stiles' neck, his fingers easily spanning the stubble-free throat. Stiles' pulse hammers beneath his hand. "Much better. You feel like silk. It's a waste for you to grow a beard."

"Daddy," Stiles chokes. _"Please."_

"Ah-ah. No talking. I'd be very upset if I hurt you." Peter squeezes Stiles' throat in warning before returning to his task. "Let me finish, and then I'll take care of you." Stiles sits statue-still, practically holding his breath through the last few passes. The heady cloud of pheromones is an almost unbearable tease to Peter's senses, but it will be worth it to see that familiar, clean-shaven face panting under him, begging for his daddy to fuck him _more_ and _harder_.

Stiles doesn't notice Peter rinse and wipe the razor before tucking it back on its stand—drifting too far out to care what happens. Docile and trusting, he huddles against Peter as the hot washcloth runs over his face and neck, wiping away soap and stray hairs.

"There he is. There's my baby." Stiles blinks back at Peter, pupils expanded as far as they'll go; his mouth drops open, but he says nothing. Peter's lips curve in a soft smile and he drags his nose across Stiles' satiny warm cheek. "Are you ready for your _something nice?_ " Peter waits for the question to process. He enjoys the quiet minutes, reveling in the smell and feel of a pliant Stiles in his arms. Peter's in no hurry to end the moment. Finally, Stiles turns his face to meet Peter's in a chaste press of lips; he taps Peter's hip once.

* * *

Many thanks to Bones for editing.

If I ever write the follow-up porn, then it will be posted on my AO3.


End file.
